


The Ache for Home

by CamsthiSky



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU
Genre: Angst, Brief torture scene, Bruce Wayne is Emotionally Stunted But What Else is New, Comic Book Science, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Or "Science"
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 21:54:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12639951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamsthiSky/pseuds/CamsthiSky
Summary: Dick goes missing, and Jason looks for him. He wonders, though, why he's the only one looking.





	The Ache for Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laquilasse (laquilasse)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laquilasse/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Toni!

“Let me go!” Dick cries into the emptiness, straining against his restraints.

His gloves and boots are halfway across the room, and that’s the only reason that Dick hasn’t managed to break out of the leather straps holding him to this table. If his gear hadn’t been taken he’d probably be halfway out of the joint by now. But he’s trapped. He can’t do anything except wriggle uselessly and yell obscenities into the darkness.

He doesn’t even know where he is, right now. Somewhere under the city, maybe in the sewers by the feel of the air and smell of the place. He doesn’t remember how he got here, or even _why_ he’s here. He doesn’t know who has him, or for what reason they’re keeping him here.

The only thing that he really knows for sure is that his mask hasn’t been taken off. The spirit gum is still holding strong, and he knows he’d feel it if the mask had been peeled off and the replaced. It doesn’t make any sense, but Dick’s not an expert on criminals—okay. Well, so he is _a little bit._ But he doesn’t even know who snatched him this time. The Joker’s never been interested in identities, so maybe this guy isn’t, either.

Still, he needs to get out of here. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here or if anybody’s on their way because he didn’t check in, but even if someone’s coming for him, he needs to at least _try_ to meet them halfway.

Dick pulls against the restraints again, desperate to find a weak spot, but it’s useless. Dick can’t maneuver his wrists far enough either way to find something sharp to cut them with. All he can do is pull, and all _that’s_ doing is rubbing his wrists raw.

Dick yells incoherently, and the sound echoes around him. He lets himself slump back against the table he’s strapped to and wonders what he’s supposed to do now.

“Well, well,” a voice says, and the sound of it sends a chill up Dick’s spine. He strains to see the person in the shadows, but they’re hiding too well. All he hears is a voice. A hoarse, creepy voice that reminds Dick of the nights he used to spend under the covers recovering from fear toxin. “You’re awake.”

“What do you want from me?” Dick demands, pulling at the leather straps again.

“Information,” the voice says, echoing around the dark cavern-sewer place they’re in. “You see, Bat Brat, you’ve got something in that brain of yours that I need. And you’re going to give it to me.”

“Like _hell_ I will,” Dick snarls.

“I didn’t plan for the information to come voluntarily,” the voice tells him, and Dick’s blood runs cold at the implications. _Torture._ Dick’s going to get tortured for information. Good thing he’s had so much practice, that little voice in his head chimes in

He politely tells it to shut the hell up.

“Even if you could get it from me,” Dick says, “Batman knows I’m missing. You won’t have enough time to find whatever you’re looking for before somebody comes for me.”

“Except,” the voice whispers into his ear, and Dick tenses. He hadn’t even heard them _move,_ and yet they’re so close. Close and fast enough to rival Wally, and silent enough to rival _Batman._ That’s more terrifying than Dick is willing to admit. “Except, I’ve got a little trick up my sleeve, Bat Brat.”

Dick shivers. “What trick?”

There’s a definite in the voice’s tone as they sing-song, “No one is coming for you. No one even knows you’re _missing._ ” And then the voice is gone, their cackle the only thing that’s left behind as it echoes around him.

Dick tries to stay calm, but whatever cool he’d had before—which, it really hadn’t been much—has left him, and he thinks he’s _this_ close to a panic attack. He doesn’t know what the voice had meant by any of that “trick” stuff, but Dick thinks that he should be preparing himself to escape on his own, because it really hadn’t sounded like the voice had been lying.

* * *

Jason’s pissed off. _Incredibly_ pissed off. He wants to hit something, and he’d prefer it if it were Dick’s face.

The bastard was supposed to meet up with him to drop off some information he needed for a case last night, but Dick had never showed. Dick won’t even answer his phone or his comm. And since Jason _actually_ needs the information and can’t do anything without it, he’s been hunting the Dick-headed moron down all day, to no avail.

Seriously. The guy hadn’t been at his apartment, the penthouse, or any of the safehouses. Roy and Wally haven’t heard from him, and Jason had even had to try Clark. No, the last possible place that Jason can try is the one place he absolutely _does not want to be._ But it’s the only option.

Maybe he’d been hurt or something. Or maybe there’d been an emergency. Jason doesn’t know. Tim, the only person Jason even has a number for besides Dick, isn’t answering his phone, either, so it’s possible. But still, whatever the case, it doesn’t change the fact that Jason’s fucking _pissed._

So when Jason pulls up on his motorcycle in the Cave to see Bruce and Tim and Alfred _not_ in the middle of any emergency, it’s understandable why his mood darkens even further.

“Where is he?” Jason demands the moment the engine cute, and he throws his helmet aside because he’s really fucking _angry._ And Bruce can look at him all disapproving as much as he wants, but it’s not going to change that Jason’s regretting letting Dick help him this one time instead of gathering the info himself like he _should_ have done.

“Where is _who?”_ Tim asks, looking kind of annoyed. “And why did you call me twelve billion times?”

“Because I can’t get a hold of that fucking _Dickhead!”_ Jason seethes, doing the stupid thing and ignoring the look Alfred throw his way. Whatever. Jason’ll make it up to the butler later, when he’s not pissed ten ways to hell. “He was supposed to have info for me last night, and he didn’t show up.”

“Jason—” Bruce says, but unless it’s a damn good excuse, Jason doesn’t want to hear it.

So he cuts in, “Did Damian scrape his elbow and the bastard come running like the overprotective mother hen he is? Or does he actually have a good reason for narrowing my window of opportunity on this case?”

Throughout his rant, though, all three faces before him only grow more and more confused, and Jason’s honestly about to say screw it and start searching the manor himself. Except—

“Jason,” Bruce says again, brow furrowed. “Who are you talking about?”

“Who am I—You’re kidding, right?”

Jason _seriously_ can’t believe this is happening right now. Tim and Alfred might play dumb sometimes, but Bruce _never_ does. It’s against whatever code he runs on, or whatever. The same code that orders him to brood all the damn time. But all he’s getting right now are blank looks from all three of them.

“No?” Tim says, leaning forward. “But if you needed info for a case, you should have just texted me or something. You didn’t have to—”

“ _Dick,”_ Jason yells, throwing his hands up in the air, and the room goes silent. “I’m talking about Dick Grayson. Nightwing? Wears ridiculous crap and pretends it’s fashion? The same guy that was supposed to meet me in Robbinsville last night?”

Bruce’s face hardens, and he swivels his chair around so that the back is facing Jason. Tim winces and sucks down into whatever the hell he’s working on. And Alfred—Alfred looks at Jason just like he had when Jason had first shown up back at the manor for the first time since coming back from the dead. Like he sometimes still does when he sees that damn case and thinks no one is watching.

Only, this time it’s not for Jason.

“The fuck is wrong with all of you?” Jason asks. “Did Dick—Did something happen to Dick last night or something?”

“Get out, Jason,” Bruce says, and his voice, it’s—it’s full of _grief._

“The hell I will!” Jason cries, getting angry again. There’s something tight in his chest, and he can’t help but glance towards the cases—but there’s no memorial. Not like Jason’s. Nightwing’s costume isn’t even _there._ Jason turns back to Bruce. “If something happened, I deserve to know just as much as everyone else!”

“For god’s sake, Jason,” Tim says, shooting him a wild look. “What are you even—”

 _“Enough,”_ Bruce hisses, standing up from his chair. “That’s enough. We’re not talking about this anymore.”

“Newsflash, Bruce,” Jason sneers. “We _haven’t_ talked about it. It’s just been you pushing me to the side. _Again._ Whatever happened, I’m not going to take being sidelined like this.”

Alfred even looks troubled now. “Master Jason, really—”

“Did you have Dick fake his death again? Or is Dick _actually_ dead?” Jason asks, his heart beating a mile a minute. He’s going to pay for cutting Alfred off later, but he can’t focus on it right now. “And why won’t you look me in the dam eye?! What _happened?!_ ”

Jason’s hands are trembling. He knows he’s automatically jumping to the worst-case scenario, but all of them are acting like Dick’s name is taboo or something, and with Bruce being so evasive, Jason doesn’t have any choice but to guess or search the manor himself.

And if Dick _is_ dead, well. Jason doesn’t want to think about that. Last time Dick had been dead, Damian was dead, too, and Bruce hadn’t been able to look anyone in the eyes, and Tim had been _crushed._ And Jason? Jason had had two choices. Stay and take Dick’s place as big brother, or run.

He’d chosen the cowardly option. He’d run. He wonders if this time will be the same.

“Jason, why are you—” Tim says, his face twisting up weirdly, but Bruce cuts him off again.

“Dick is dead,” Bruce tells him, and Jason’s breath catches in his throat. But before Jason can say anything, Bruce is talking again. “He’s been dead for years. I know you two didn’t get along very well, but that’s no excuse for you to play game like these again. We’re _done._ Get out.” And with that, Bruce storms out of the Cave and up into the manor, and Jason can only watch him go.

 _Years?_ Dick’s been dead for _years?_ That doesn’t—That makes absolutely no sense. Jason had just talked to Dick a few days ago to make sure Dick was getting that info. Wally and Roy hadn’t acted like Jason was crazy for asking. Not, it was just—just Bruce, Tim, and Alfred.

And a part of him, the part that watched that movie with Dick a few days ago and actually had a good time, breathes a sigh of relief against whatever grief had built up during that conversation. Jason’s _not_ wrong, but he _is_ missing something, and if he can get answers, he can prove that whatever grief is left is completely unfounded.

He turns a sharp gaze to Tim. “Do you want to explain what _that—”_ he gestures towards the stairs leading to the manor, “—was about?”

Tim shoots him a glare. “Just give it up, Jason. I don’t know if you’re trying to get back at Bruce or whatever, but—”

“What in the _hell,”_ Jason says. “What the actual fuck are you talking about? Get Bruce back for what? And if Dick were dead for the past couple years do you really think that I’d pull something like this?”

“Maybe you—”

Jason ruffles his hair with one hand. “For fuck’s sake, I literally talked to Dick on Wednesday. And Wally talked to him like Saturday or something. The hell are you all _on?”_

“Dick’s dead,” Tim says. “He died before you did. Did you finally snap or something?”

Jason drops his head into his hands and tries just to breathe. Whatever’s going on, something’s not adding up. Drugs? Big elaborate prank? Fake death? Fear Toxin? None of those seem plausible for the kind of reaction Tim and Bruce are giving him, and Alfred had looked so _sad._ They genuinely seem to think that Dick has been dead for years.

But Jason spoke to him a few days ago. He remembers punching Dick in his stupid face for daring to fake his death however long ago it was. He _knows_ Dick’s still alive—or he’d been alive recently, at least. Jason has to dig. He’s a detective. He’s going to figure this out, with or without Tim’s help.

Marginally calmer, Jason looks back up, looks Tim dead in the eye and says, “I snapped a long time ago. But this time, I think it’s _you guys_ that need to seriously evaluate what’s going on in those heads of yours. Dick’s alive, and I don’t care what I have to do to prove it.”

And with that, he picks up his helmet, slings a leg over his bike, and leaves crazy town to continue life without him.

* * *

Alfred’s spent years in the manor, cleaning, cooking, and raising unruly children.

It had started with Bruce, a child so deeply caught up in his own trauma he’d shut himself off to the point nothing seemed to get through that wall of his. Not until he’d become Batman and brought home a young child one night, and Alfred suddenly had _another_ charge to look after.

Not that he minded. In fact, he’d been more than happy to help Bruce raise the ray of sunshine that had been Richard Grayson. He’d been almost Bruce’s opposite. Open, bright, and determined to be happy, no matter how much of his own trauma he had on his own shoulders. Sometimes Alfred was afraid that that determination would turn into something deadly. Something that would get him or Bruce killed at some point.

He had only been a boy, after all, and boys aren’t known for their caution.

And of course, Alfred had been right.

The details are fuzzy all these years later, especially after Jason’s untimely passing and subsequent resurrection took the forefront of worry in his mind.

However, Alfred knows that he can never forget someone like Richard Grayson.

Bruce, he knows, will never forget Richard, either, though perhaps different reasons. Where Alfred will remember a hyperactive child running through the halls of the manor, sliding down the banisters, swinging from the chandeliers, Bruce will remember the first Robin, the soldier he’d help create, Nightwing, the fights.

Bruce will remember what he thinks is his own failings.

The odd thing, though, is the way Bruce is acting. Alfred notices the moment they enter the study that it’s not grief sitting heavy upon Bruce’s shoulders, it’s _anger._ And while that’s not an emotion Alfred is unfamiliar with when it comes to Bruce, it’s odd that whenever Richard is mentioned in his memories, Bruce reacts the same way as he does when Jason’s death is mentioned.

And yet, it’s different now.

And Alfred himself, he feels sad, but not impossibly sad. He remembers what it feels like, to have a weight sitting on his chest, crushing his lungs and making it hard to breathe. But when Alfred thinks of Richard’s grinning face, all he has is the urge to bake a batch of chocolate cookies and wait in the kitchen for a boy who will never come home again.

“I’m going out,” Bruce announces, and Alfred follows him to the door, helping Bruce into a coat. There’s no need to ask where Bruce is going on such short notice, seeing as he goes up to the top of the hill to stare at a grave every time he grieves, but Bruce is agitated, and this isn’t a normal visit.

Alfred hopes, as Bruce walks out the door without a word over his shoulder, that whatever it is that’s happening, it is resolved sooner rather than later.

And something _is_ happening, of that he has no doubt. But for now, he’ll stay here, in the manor, and wait for his children to come home. And he barely dares to think it, but he’ll even wait for _all_ of them, no matter how much heartbreak he’s setting himself up for.

* * *

Something’s wrong, Tim thinks.

At first, he’d written off Jason’s ramblings as getting dosed with fear toxin or trying to get back at Bruce or something. Jason’s tried to kill all of them before, so it’s not like it’s hard to imagine Jason doing something horrible.

But it’s also been months since Jason had finally stopped all of that, and for the life of him, Tim can’t remember why. He also can’t get, _did Dick fake his death again?_ out of his head, because there’s _something_ in his chest, and it twists every single time he thinks of those words.

So Tim does what he always does when he’s looking at a particularly hard case: fills a thermos with freshly made coffee and starts breaking things down.

It’s hours later that Damian comes down to the Cave and immediately zeroes in on him. Which is perfect, because despite wanting literally nothing to do with the brat, he’s just what Tim needs right now.

“What are you working on _now,_ Drake?” Damian drawls, seemingly uninterested. But there’s that glimmer of curiosity in his eyes that Tim is actually glad to see for once. But he doesn’t speak, knowing that if he answers now, Damian will refuse to even stay in the room. Damian’s eyebrows scrunch up as he watches Tim type. “Why are you looking into old case files from fifteen years ago?”

Tim spins his chair around and looks Damian in the eye. “This is top secret.”

Damian scoffs. “Everything we do is top secret, Drake. I’d have thought that you’d have known that by now.”

“I mean secret from Bruce.”

Damian straightens, his shoulders tense up. “What warrants the secrecy?”

Tim leans back and rubs a hand over his face. He’s been staring at the screen too long. “Lots of things. The biggest being that I think Jason’s right and Bruce isn’t, no matter how sure he seems.”

“What are you going on about?” Damian asks. “And what does Todd have to do with it?”

“Who made you Robin?” Tim decides to throw out.

“Father,” Damian tells him automatically, looking irritated. And then his expression turns vicious. “If you think you’re taking back the position—”

“Shut up for a second and just answer my questions, okay?” Tim snaps. “This is actually important, and I only have a little bit of time before Bruce realizes I hacked the cameras.”

Damian, amazingly, shuts up.

“Okay, Bruce was lost in time when you became Robin,” Tim tells him seriously. “So that means it _couldn’t_ have been Bruce that gave you the uniform, because as soon as it was given to you, I left Gotham to go find Bruce.”

Damian opens his mouth, and then shuts it, staring at the floor in some cross of contemplation, confusion, and realization.

“So someone else gave it to you,” Tim says, feeling breathless as that thing in his chest twists again. “Do you know who it was?”

Damian shakes his head, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet. “No. I can’t remember.”

“You mean you have gaps in your memory,” Tim confirms his hypothesis. “Someone looked out for Gotham with you while I was looking for Bruce and Cass was in Hong Kong and Jason was still having his identity crisis. Someone else was there, and we’re missing him.”

“Who?”

Tim licks his lips and stares at the ground, barely daring to believe that he’s about to say this aloud. “Jason came in here earlier screaming his head off about—well. About the first Robin. Richard Grayson. I thought he was having a mental breakdown or something, but now—"

“He died,” Damian says, his eyes on the cases in the corner when Tim looks back up. His brows are furrowed and there’s a quiet horror in his voice. “Richard Grayson is dead, but there’s no memorial for him. But there’s one for Todd. Todd has been revived and Father still won’t take it down.”

“Yeah,” Tim says, his heart fluttering in his chest as he thinks about it and the pieces start to come together. There’s something in him that hurts, and it shouldn’t, and he thinks that’s what solidifies this. It’s not supposed to hurt like this when he’s never even _met_ the guy “Combine all of it together, it points to one thing.”

Damian looks him in the eye, and Tim can barely breathe anymore.

“It means Jason’s right,” Tim whispers. “Dick Grayson is alive.”

* * *

 _“Are you sure?”_ Wally asks from the other end of the line for the fifth damn time. _“I mean, why would they forget and not us?”_

Jason makes an irritated noise into his phone, cradling it between his shoulder and his cheek as he looks through his case files for clues. For something he might have missed. “They didn’t forget. They think he’s dead. Two different things here, West.”

 _“But still,”_ Wally says, and Jason can hear the frown in his voice, _“that doesn’t make any sense. Especially if they’re saying he died before even_ you _did.”_

“You think I don’t know that?” Jason snaps. He grabs the phone with one hand and straightens up, the other hand ruffling his own hair in his irritation. “Dick’s not showing up anywhere and suddenly the whole damn family thinks he’s dead? You think I don’t know that’s weird?!”

_“Calm down, Jason. I’m just saying—”_

“It’s insane!” Jason yells, pushing himself to his feet. “And for some reason it’s only them! If I hadn’t gone over there, no one would even…be….”

Jason freezes, the gears in his head turning over and over as he tries to think through this. If Jason hadn’t needed Dick last night, it might have been days before someone had realized that the Waynes thought Dick was dead. Meaning no one would be out looking for him until it was too late.

“Oh god,” Jason says, horror twisting his stomach painfully. “Someone took him.”

 _“What?”_ Wally asks, his voice actually quiet for once in his life. _“What are you talking about?”_

“Think about it,” Jason tells him. “Someone went through the trouble of altering the memories of the people that Dick are publicly connected to, and _only_ the people he’s publicly connected to. You, me, Roy, Clark. We weren’t affected by whatever it was, but we’re not in constant contact with him, either. Bruce and Tim are.”

 _“So what are you saying?”_ Wally wonders. There’s some kind of murmuring and rustling in the background, but Jason is barley paying attention.

“I’m saying that Tim and Bruce and Alfred didn’t just _happen_ to think Dick was dead, and they’re the ones that Dick has constant public contact with,” Jason tells him. “Which means that someone did this, and they’re probably just buying time to get something from Dick. They took him.”

Wally’s silent for almost a moment, and Jason feels a flutter of irritation rise up in his gut again. If he’s right, if someone’s just trying to stall for time, that means that they don’t have much of it to find Dick. From the way this is set up, this isn’t supposed to be a permanent situation. Not everyone was brain-washed into thinking Dick’s dead, which probably can mean two things.

One, it’s like Jason told Wally. Whoever took Dick is stalling for time, which would suggest that they want information and Dick isn’t giving it up easily. It’d make sense, given the circumstances and who Dick was trained by.

Two, the person didn’t have the juice. Whatever mind melding powers they have might not be powerful enough to affect the entire world.

Jason’s money is on both.

 _“Okay,”_ Wally says, and Jason startles back to the present. _“Okay, I’m on my way over.”_

“You’re _what?”_ Jason asks, but before he can really even blink, Wally’s there. In the middle of his apartment. Making half the papers on his table fly up into the air from the force of his speed. Jason jams the _end call_ button on his phone harder than necessary. “How the hell do you even know where I live?!”

“Dick,” Wally says, pulling out his own phone. He scrolls through his contacts, settles on a name, and puts it on speaker.

“Who are you calling?” Jason asks, his brow crumpling, making a mental note to chew Dick out later for giving Wally his address if they find him.

 _When,_ he chastises himself. _When_ they find him.

But Wally doesn’t answer. Instead, the person on the other end picks up, and it’s Barbara who says a in a soft and somewhat confused voice, _“Hello?”_

“Hey, Barbara,” Wally says easily.

But his shoulders are tense and his eyes are troubled, and he kind of looks like Dick does sometimes, when he wants to make it seem like nothing’s bothering him because he’s a giant masochist. Wally’s doesn’t seem to be doing it for that, though. Jason thinks that Wally doesn’t want to give away just how much shit they’re actually in. At least, that’s what Jason would do.

_“Wally. To what do I owe the pleasure?”_

“I’m looking for someone,” Wally says, setting the phone down on the table and leaning on the back of a chair. “He was in Gotham last night, and he was wearing a Nightwing suit.”

There’s silence for a moment, and Babs says, _“Is this some kind of sick joke? Because if it is—”_

“It’s not,” Jason cuts in. “Honest, Barbara. We’re telling the truth.”

_“Jason?”_

“Yeah,” Jason says. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“Come on, Babs,” Wally says, his voice soft. “You know what the suit means to me. To all of us. Will you please help us?”

 _“Fine,”_ Barbara tells them, her voice steely. _“I’ll look. But if this turns into some prank, I’m setting Cass on the both of you and you can forget about any support from me for an entire year.”_

The three of them fall quiet, and for a long time, almost two or three minutes, Jason thinks, there’s absolutely no noise beside the small clicks of the keyboard on Barbara’s end of the line. A sharp intake of breath breaks the silence, though, and Jason finds himself leaning over the phone.

“What?” he demands. “What is it?”

 _“You guys were right,”_ Barbara says. _“Corner of Fourth and Main, 2:17 am.”_

“Is he doing anything weird?”

 _“He’s just…sitting on the roof.”_ Jason ignores the quiet waver to Barbara’s voice, but he appreciates when she takes a deep breath and seems to find her calm. Good. Jason’s not sure he can handle anything like a break down from her, right now. He’s already so close to the edge himself, being one of the only people to believe that Dick is even alive.

Barbara takes another breath, and then there’s more typing.

Jason’s fists clench. “What’s going on now?”

 _“Do you have your laptop open?”_ Barbara asks. _“And on?”_

Jason swivels around, looking over at his coffee table, where his laptop’s plugged in and open to his desktop screen. He doesn’t use it for much since it’s a cheap old thing he got for a couple hundred bucks and sucks at running more than three programs at once. “Yes? Why?”

 _“I’m sending you the video footage from last night,”_ Barbara says. _“I’ll help you take this guy down, but I need you two to figure this out where he is by yourself. I can’t—that uniform is—”_

“Got it,” Wally says. “Thanks, Barbara.”

 _“Just figure this out, West,”_ Barbara says, and then there’s a click, and the line goes dead. She hung up.

At the same time, Jason’s email pings annoyingly, and he plops down on the couch, opens his browser up to access his account, and clicks on the new email from Babs. It’s a few videos, different angles of Dick sitting on a rooftop last night, the same rooftop that he and Jason were supposed to meet at. Dick was almost an hour early, though, and Jason thinks that maybe that had been his downfall.

It’s as they’re watching the first video, though, that something weird happens. One minute, Dick is sitting on the ledge of the roof, and the next, he’s crumpling backwards, like a puppet with his strings cut.

“What the—” Jason starts to say, but Wally leans over his shoulder from the back of the couch, and when Jason turns to look at him, his green eyes are wide.

“Play it back.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I thought I saw something.”

Jason plays it back, and they watch Dick crumple again, and this time, even though Jason knows it’s coming, he barley holds back a wince as he watches Dick fall unconscious seemingly unprompted. He pauses it afterwards, and turns to Wally.

“Well?” he asks.

Wally shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Wally breathes. “I thought I saw a person, but it’s not there anymore.”

Jason unpauses the video, and they keep watching.

Nothing else happens for a few minutes, just Dick unconscious on the rooftop, and then the camera goes black for almost ten seconds, and when it cuts back in, Dick’s gone. Checking the other videos reveal the exact same thing, and Jason shuts his laptop in frustration, scrubbing at his hair.

“That was absolutely _no_ help,” Jason snaps.

Wally sighs, forearms resting on the back of the couch. “I mean, it gives us a place to look, right?”

“I guess,” Jason says, but he feels sort of sick. He’d told Tim that he was going to prove that Dick was alive, and all he has to go on are a couple of tampered videos and the fact that only the people closest to him seem to think he’s dead. “God, this is so messed up.”

“Yeah,” Wally agrees, and he looks as tired as Jason feels. “So what do we do now? Do we go out and look for him?”

“It’s like three in the afternoon,” Jason snorts. “I don’t know how it works in Keystone, but we don’t go in the daytime, West.”

“I know that but—”

Jason’s phone rings, then, and Wally cuts off. One glance at his caller ID, though, has Jason furrowing his brow in confusion. He answers with a hesitant, “Tim?”

 _“I believe you,”_ Tim says immediately. _“Dick’s alive. I believe you.”_

Jason sags back into the couch. “What made you change your mind.”

 _“Things aren’t adding up.”_ Tim pauses, and there’s some murmuring on Tim’s side. Sounds kind of like arguing, and Jason thinks that Tim might be there with _Damian_ of all people, calling _Jason_. Geez, when Dick disappears, the Bats go to crazy town, don’t they? Tim blows out a breath. _“Okay, meet me and Damian on that rooftop where Dick disappeared in an hour.”_

Tim hangs up, then, and knowing Tim, Jason thinks he probably hacked his way into the cameras, too. From what Jason knows about him, Tim’s almost as good as Barbara is when it comes to technology.

So Jason saves the question for later, looks up at Wally, and says, “Suit up,”

It looks like they’ve got a stray bird to rescue.

* * *

Dick’s been here for a while. Long enough that _someone_ should have noticed by now that he’s been gone too long and come looking for him.

During his stay down here in Sewerville, Dick’s pretty sure the voice has managed to half kill him without even letting Dick seem them. There’s blood pouring from every part of his body, he’s bruised and beaten, and his voice is wrecked from constantly screaming. He feels like he’s about to die, and he thinks that the only two reasons he’s even still alive is because one, his captor hasn’t gotten their information, and two, he still has that little bit of faith that someone will find him. That _Bruce_ will find him. No matter what the voice keeps telling him.

But after the first few hours of mouthing off, Dick’s wrist gets crushed and he’s half-strangled to death, and his words become few and far apart, until he finally stops talking altogether. After that time passes by in bits and pieces. One minute he’s alone, the next he’s getting electrocuted. One minute he’s getting stabbed with a knife, the next he’s by himself again. It skips and pauses, like an old record, and Dick can’t seem to hold onto it for more than maybe an hour at a time.

That’s bad, he thinks, but he can’t remember why.

Right now, though, there’s a bigger problem to worry about. Namely, the syringe being plunged into his arm. Dick cries out as it breaks the needle breaks the skin and the contents injected into his veins.

“What was that?” Dick calls out hoarsely. “What did you just give me?”

“Tell me what you know,” the voice demands for the millionth time. “Tell me what you know and I’ll let you go. This will all be over with.”

Dick chest heaves for precious, precious air as he stares up at the ceiling, and he’s _not_ going to cry, but he can’t help it when his voice cracks a little when he says, “I already told you, I don’t know.”

“You must know something.”

“I. Don’t. Know.”

“I don’t believe that the first Robin doesn’t know where the Justice League Headquarters are. You _must_ know.” The syringe clatters to the ground. “And that serum will help you waggle your tongue.”

Dick shivers. “I don’t know where it is. I _don’t know.”_

“You’re lying,” the voice hisses, and Dick flinches away from the voice. “You’re lying. Because I’ve seen you in it. I just need to know how to access it. That’s all you have to tell me and you’ll be free.”

“Even if I did know,” Dick says, trying his best to keep his voice calm and steady, “I would never tell you.”

“We’ll see how you feel after the serum runs its course,” the voice cackles. “Have a nice sleep, Bat Brat.”

Dick’s vision wavers, and his last thought before everything goes dark is, _Please let Bruce find me. Please._


End file.
